


Pictures Tell a Story

by afrikate



Series: Justin, Writhing [4]
Category: Popslash
Genre: AU, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the perspective is off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures Tell a Story

Once, Brian told him he should have an art show—that he should show off his sketches because they were that good. After the comic debacle, he knew he'd never do that. But sometimes, in the middle of touring, lonely on his single bus and missing them, he pulls out his sketchbooks and wanders through his drawings of them, remembering what was going through his head when he made the pictures.

Sometimes it's lust, heart-pounding, dick-hardening lust, and often those times end with phone sex, or at least a marathon jerk-off session.

Sometimes he remembers contentment and lazy morning stretched to afternoon, in bed or on the couch, cosy and cuddled and with a sweetness like honey, with the sting of its making almost indiscernable.

Sometimes there's humour and memories of trash-talking on a basketball court, on the links, or in front of a new video game. He'll laugh out loud, giggling over tired or forgotten jokes, the memory of their shared hilarity stronger than his momentary amusement.

And other times the pictures tell a story of two beautiful men very much in love, of an outsider always looking in, and the bruises from pressing against the window are buried deep but ache and burn.

He doesn't let himself have those days often, because everything suffers for it—relationships with the guys, his love of the music, even the performances.

These are the times he stops calling them, or taking their calls, and thinks, probably melodramatically, that they'd be better off if he were dead. At the very least, that they are perfect and happy and meant to be, and that he's just a fly in the ointment.

The few times it happened before, he pulled himself out of it quickly. A practical joke played with Brian he has to share, a funny story about Kevin flipping out, a cute text message. He calls and they talk, though not about that, and it's all good again.

This time, though, he's spent too many hours watching them together in interviews looking adorably snarky and in love, and the sketches help to rob him of any perspective whatsoever. More than two weeks go by, and they don't talk because he's turned his phone off and he's hiding from both of them. He's not a bitch to the other guys, just distant, and refuses to answer Howie's questions about them, since Howie's the only one who will ask.

It's a surprise, then, when Brian lures him into his room under pretext of a Final Fantasy marathon and then asks him to answer Brian's cell while Brian sets up the Playstation. Nick pushes the talk button and says, "Brian's phone," and is utterly floored when Chris' voice reaches out from the other end, drawling, "Nick. So nice to hear from you. It's only been a few weeks, so I know you're not expecting to hear from us, but I thought I'd just, you know, say hi..."

Nick knows Chris could go on like that that for hours, bitter and snarky, the closest Chris would come to showing hurt, and guilt hits him in waves. He closes his eyes and pinches his fingers to the bridge of his nose, not registering Brian's hand squeezing his shoulder as he leaves the room. He just lets Chris' voice roll him over a bed of pain-jagged rocks. Finally, _finally_, Justin grabs the phone from Chris, and Nick can hear a furious conversation of whispers before Justin's voice comes through loud and clear, and he sounds happy as a pig in mud—

"Carter! What's shaking, baby? You don't write, you don't call... Where's the love!"

Justin is excellent at pushing his buttons.

"Fuck off, Timberlake," he growls, and pulls the phone from his ear to stab the off button.

"You turn that phone off, fucker, and I'll kick your goddamn ass."

That isn't happy-go-lucky Justin, and Nick is meanly pleased that he's gotten under Justin's skin.

"I'd like to see you try to kick my ass, Timberlake, you pussy." And that might have sounded weak, but Nick knows how to push Justin's buttons as well.

"Pussy!" and Justin's voice sounds strangled and angry and then there's a new voice in his ear, dry and sarcastic—

"You two having a pissing contest is not going to get us anywhere."

"Yeah," growled Nick, "because we all know who's bigger."

And then Chris' laughter is bubbling and warm in his ear, and he can hear Justin bitching in outrage. The humour of the scene hits him and he just loses it, laughing great belly laughs. He laughs for a long time, and when he winds down, Chris asks, "Feel better?"

"Yeah," he said, "definitely."

"Good. Then you can tell me why the fuck you decided to ignore us for the last two weeks."

"Two and a half!" shouts Justin into the phone.

"It's nothing."

"Carter, nothing is what you hear when they turn off the tracks at Brit's show. Blowing off your boyfriends for two _and a half_ weeks is a big ole something."

"No, really..."

"Carter. Nick," and his voice softens here. "This isn't the first time, and if you think I haven't noticed you're dead wrong. You never did this before" —and Nick knows 'before' means before Justin— "and I want to know why you're doing it now."

Nick closes his eyes, which burn suddenly, and tries to think of something to say that isn't the truth and isn't a lie. He doesn't have any luck.

"Nick. Nick—"

"Yeah."

There's a sigh, and then, "Nick, you know I love you, right?"

"..."

"Right?"

"Yeah."

"And you know that even though he's a total shit sometimes—"

"Hey!"

"...that Justin loves you, too, right?"

The "yeah" is sullen.

Gently, "And you know that us being together while you aren't here doesn't mean we don't miss you like hell. No matter what it might look or sound like in interviews."

A tear works it's way out of his tightshut eyes, and Nick catches it on his finger and brings it to his lips. Bitter.

"Nick?"

Deep breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah." And that sounds tired and sad, and then Justin takes the phone and says, sincere as anything, "I miss you, Nick."

He can think of nothing not stupid to say.

"I think," and here Nick gives a little snort, "I think I need to take some art classes."

That catches Nick, so random and out of the blue.

"I think I need to show you my memories," he says, and just like that Nick is laid open, bare, and every word is like a finger poking a deep bruise.

"Your memories are off, Nick. And I want you to see what you're missing."

Nick stays silent, but his breathing betrays him, and Justin begins to talk, telling him what he sees when he watches Nick and Chris, his words stripped of the artifice of his music, and filling in the white spaces in Nick's sketches. Chris adds a word or three every once in a while. When the flow of words finally slows and stops, Nick breathes deep and pinches the bridge of his nose again, and says quietly, "Thank you."

Justin's reply, "Anytime," is utterly sincere.

Chris finally breaks the lengthening silence with, "Don't you forget it, Carter," and Nick smiles a bit.

"You're the one with Alzheimer's, old man."

The screeching protest from Chris makes him laugh, and they chat about inconsequential things for close to an hour.

Finally, Chris and Justin have head off to sound check, and Nick wishes them good luck with the night's show.

"Don't forget," repeats Chris, and Justin adds, "Don't just rely on you your memories."

Nick smiles, and says, "I won't."

When he lets Brian back into his room and returned his phone, he catches Brian in a big hug. "Thanks, man."

Brian smiles, one of his crinkle-eyed real smiles, and just says "Welcome."

 

 

_© 2002 afrikate_


End file.
